


If You Were a Melody

by missjo



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:15:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1992876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missjo/pseuds/missjo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"you’ve been playing guitar in the hall of the hotel since three in the morning and i came down to tell you to shut the fuck up au" slightly modified because I do what I want Pre-slash. Modern AU. Ended up with more angst than I'd planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Were a Melody

Thomas was never staying in a hotel with a piano in the lobby ever again. No matter how luxurious it was. He groaned and rolled over to look at the lit up numbers of the clock on the bedside table -- 00:30. It was after midnight and he hadn’t had more than two hours’ sleep because  _someone_ thought it a  _bloody_  good time to be banging away at the  _bloody_ piano.

That was it. Thomas had a very important speech to give at a conference for disabled vets tomorrow afternoon and this was  _not on_. He sat up with a growl and put his robe on over his pajamas. He slipped his shoes on in a huff and made his way out of the room to the spiral staircase beside it that led straight down to the lobby.

He stalked into the empty room -- why these vintage-style hotels never left anyone on duty this late at night he hadn’t the foggiest -- and found a man sitting with his back to him at the piano. The man was in his pajamas as well, minus the propriety of a robe, and the mop of blonde hair on his head looked disheveled. He was playing something slow and somber that Thomas didn’t recognize. It was at a lower volume than he had expected -- it must’ve just carried perfectly up that old staircase to his room. He had all the bloody luck.

“Excuse me,” he said harshly, his voice echoing in the room as the notes coming from the piano broke off abruptly.

The man turned on the bench to look at him with bleary, sleep deprived eyes. Thomas’s heart stuttered in his chest as he took in the man’s handsome features. His mussed blonde hair framed a perfectly sculpted face with high cheekbones, square jaw, and a mouth that looked perfectly  _sinful_. He had never found himself so frozen in place by a face.

“Oh. I couldn’t sleep,” the man said in a completely unaffected tone. His voice was deeper than Thomas had expected.

Thomas found himself caught too far off guard by it all to find the words to show his anger. He stared at the handsome man in disbelief for a moment before clearing his throat and tried again.

“Thought you’d share your troubles then?” Thomas sneered. “Do you know what time it is?”

The man glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. “Have I really been playing for that long?” he asked, his face screwing up into an oddly mixed expression that hit somewhere between surprise and disdain.

“Yes,” Thomas hissed. “Yes you bloody well have.”

The stranger at least had the dignity to wince in response to Thomas’s wrath. He glanced at the piano and then slowly looked back to Thomas.

_‘Maybe he’s a bit touched in the head. Would explain it,’_  Thomas thought unkindly.

“Sorry. I was just trying to get it right. Couldn’t get all the notes in the right order and I must by tomorrow, y’see,” the man said, his face contorting in frustration. It was odd to see a pretty face also be so expressive.

“Um. What?” he asked, gaping at this stranger who seemed to think he should care about why someone was keeping him up all hours of the night.

“It’s my mum’s favorite, y’see,” the man winced again, “was.  _Was_  her favorite. I’ve got to get it perfect.”

Thomas took a step closer to him and noticed the pink tinge of his cheeks and the glassiness of his eyes. Had he been… crying? Crying and playing piano in a hotel lobby in the middle of the night? How melodramatic. He inwardly rolled his eyes.

“S’her funeral tomorrow. Y’see? I’ve got to get it right.” He was drumming his fingers on his thigh now and looking more through Thomas than at him.

“Uh.” Thomas wasn’t sure what to say at this revelation. Yelling no longer seemed appropriate, somehow, and scolding didn’t either. If only he was better at being comforting.

The man stood up, unsteady on his feet. “I’m sorry I woke you. I s’pose--”

Thomas noticed the decanter of whiskey sitting pretty as a picture on top of the piano. It was half empty. He saw the way the stranger was swaying and waved a hand to cut him off.

“I’m up now so you may as well keep practicing,” he told him, his tone attempting to be kind but not quite getting there. “I think this hotel is better insulated than it looks; I just happen to be in the room the sound carried to. No one else seems to be bothered with it.”

The man stared at him in awe for a few seconds before his face molded into a small smile.

“Y’mean that?”

Thomas shrugged. “Why not. If you give me some of that, I’ll even sit with you til you get it right,” he told him, gesturing to the decanter.

He looked relieved as he sat heavily on the bench. “S’all yours. I probably shouldn’t have anymore.”

He slid over and Thomas sat down beside him. Even at opposite ends the bench was small enough that their thighs were almost touching. The stranger studied him for a long stretch before holding out his hand.

“Jimmy Kent,” he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling in an unfairly charming smile.

Thomas took a hearty drink and set the decanter back on the piano before taking the man’s outstretched hand in his. “Thomas Barrow.”

As Jimmy Kent began to play the song again Thomas sat and watched the expressions flickering across his handsome face. Perhaps being kept up all night by piano playing wasn’t so bad a thing after all.


End file.
